would the bettor wish to keep his name a secret? I would think all the gentlemen of White’s would be congratulating him on his ability to inspire the whole of the
ton
to participate.”
Lord Blackburn rubbed his hand across his mouth, drawing her gaze momentarily to the glittering ring on his finger. “I would say he did it to increase interest in the wager—and it seems to have worked brilliantly.” He peered hard at her. “Do you really believe the wager was…
inspirational
?”
“No,
I
do not!” Isobel drew a deep breath through her nostrils to calm herself. “I believe the wager exemplifies the greed…the completely selfish nature of men—and women, evidently.” She glared up at the crowd-filled windows.
He seemed to flinch at her impassioned response.
“I apologize for being so blunt, but it is sometimes hard to restrain my true feelings when so many people are in such great need of money, while others waste no opportunity to cast it willy-nilly to the four winds.” Without realizing it, she set her hand on his atop his arm. “When we first met, I had been walking by the Pugilist Club on the way to pass along a few shillings I had managed to save for a war widow and her children. I had walked from Leicester Square instead of hiring a hackney, so I could give her as much as I might.”
Lord Blackburn exhaled and stared down at the broken oyster shells beneath his feet. He raised his toes and absently ground a few shells with the heel of his shoe.
Isobel realized he was uncomfortable hearing her recount the night at the Pugilist Club—the night he treated her so abominably, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from continuing. “When I saw so many gentlemen of breeding and wealth entering the club, drawing pouches of money from their waistcoats, I was incensed.”
“And so you took the opportunity to ask for money…for your charity,” he said flatly.
“You know of my work? That I am trying to raise funds to purchase Wenton Inn to provide a permanent place of lodging for them—at least until they find their own bearings in this town?” she asked, somehow feeling very surprised.
He scratched his neck. “Och, I know. You showed up during my battle waving pamphlets in my face, if you don’t recall.”
She widened her eyes. “But you ridiculed me and what I was trying to do.”
“I didn’t know what you were trying to do, except get your nose broken by stepping between two fighters.” He looked down at her hand upon his arm.
She pulled it away.
“That doesn’t mean I did not hear you, and admire you.”
Isobel was filled with warmth and, admittedly, no little amount of confusion.
How could she have misjudged this man so entirely?
He saw her staring at him, assessing him as though for the first time. Heat surged through her cheeks, and she waved her gloves before her like a fan. What a cake she was making of herself. The night was cool. Only he was making her feel very warm. “D-do you think someone will come for us soon?” she stammered.
“Don’t fash, Isobel,” he told her. “The gentlemen of White’s will hear what the women have done soon enough. They will not want to lose their position in the wager and will free us from the sweet fragrance of the moss roses.”
His eyes, as bright as quicksilver, held her gaze as surely as his arms had held her in the ballroom, so strong and unyielding. Making her want to lean closer, to fold into him and savor the moment of rapture again.
“Soon enough, they’ll come and…shade the shimmer of the moonlight,” he whispered so softly that she was compelled to turn her head up to his to be sure she heard him, “and they’ll save us from the blessed silence of the garden…any moment now.” He moved his lips so near that his breath warmed her cheeks with every tantalizing word he uttered. “So don’t fret, dear Isobel.”
His moist lips hovered just above hers, inviting her. The roses were tall, a lush, perfumed fan. No one
ton
to participate.”
Lord Blackburn rubbed his hand across his mouth, drawing her gaze momentarily to the glittering ring on his finger. “I would say he did it to increase interest in the wager—and it seems to have worked brilliantly.” He peered hard at her. “Do you really believe the wager was…
inspirational
?”
“No,
I
do not!” Isobel drew a deep breath through her nostrils to calm herself. “I believe the wager exemplifies the greed…the completely selfish nature of men—and women, evidently.” She glared up at the crowd-filled windows.
He seemed to flinch at her impassioned response.
“I apologize for being so blunt, but it is sometimes hard to restrain my true feelings when so many people are in such great need of money, while others waste no opportunity to cast it willy-nilly to the four winds.” Without realizing it, she set her hand on his atop his arm. “When we first met, I had been walking by the Pugilist Club on the way to pass along a few shillings I had managed to save for a war widow and her children. I had walked from Leicester Square instead of hiring a hackney, so I could give her as much as I might.”
Lord Blackburn exhaled and stared down at the broken oyster shells beneath his feet. He raised his toes and absently ground a few shells with the heel of his shoe.
Isobel realized he was uncomfortable hearing her recount the night at the Pugilist Club—the night he treated her so abominably, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from continuing. “When I saw so many gentlemen of breeding and wealth entering the club, drawing pouches of money from their waistcoats, I was incensed.”
“And so you took the opportunity to ask for money…for your charity,” he said flatly.
“You know of my work? That I am trying to raise funds to purchase Wenton Inn to provide a permanent place of lodging for them—at least until they find their own bearings in this town?” she asked, somehow feeling very surprised.
He scratched his neck. “Och, I know. You showed up during my battle waving pamphlets in my face, if you don’t recall.”
She widened her eyes. “But you ridiculed me and what I was trying to do.”
“I didn’t know what you were trying to do, except get your nose broken by stepping between two fighters.” He looked down at her hand upon his arm.
She pulled it away.
“That doesn’t mean I did not hear you, and admire you.”
Isobel was filled with warmth and, admittedly, no little amount of confusion.
How could she have misjudged this man so entirely?
He saw her staring at him, assessing him as though for the first time. Heat surged through her cheeks, and she waved her gloves before her like a fan. What a cake she was making of herself. The night was cool. Only he was making her feel very warm. “D-do you think someone will come for us soon?” she stammered.
“Don’t fash, Isobel,” he told her. “The gentlemen of White’s will hear what the women have done soon enough. They will not want to lose their position in the wager and will free us from the sweet fragrance of the moss roses.”
His eyes, as bright as quicksilver, held her gaze as surely as his arms had held her in the ballroom, so strong and unyielding. Making her want to lean closer, to fold into him and savor the moment of rapture again.
“Soon enough, they’ll come and…shade the shimmer of the moonlight,” he whispered so softly that she was compelled to turn her head up to his to be sure she heard him, “and they’ll save us from the blessed silence of the garden…any moment now.” He moved his lips so near that his breath warmed her cheeks with every tantalizing word he uttered. “So don’t fret, dear Isobel.”
His moist lips hovered just above hers, inviting her. The roses were tall, a lush, perfumed fan. No one
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